


i found god at 5:57 a.m. in an exxon station by the freeway

by Etwas_Schlau



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Awkward Flirting, F/F, First Meetings, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Romance, Vishkar Corporation, Zarya Is a Big Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etwas_Schlau/pseuds/Etwas_Schlau
Summary: This isn't the first time Aleksandra Zaryanova has made a midnight pit stop to a service station in the middle of a long transport trip, but none of the previous instances had featured a gorgeous, angelic woman with wise, wistful eyes coloured like the sky and hair the hue of summer.





	i found god at 5:57 a.m. in an exxon station by the freeway

**Author's Note:**

> **Note:** I do not own Overwatch. All rights to the game and its characters belong to Blizzard.
> 
> in which snake spends two whole paragraphs trying to explain what a liminal space feels like: the trucker AU. 
> 
> zarcy was my first overwatch ship so it thought it was fitting this be my first fic in the fandom. overwatch has completely taken over my life since then, so i can promise this won't be the last ;) enjoy your stay in rarepair hell.

Aleksandra’s eyes abruptly remind her how tired she is with a discordant, persistent spasm that throbs in her skull and out her ears. She blinks and her eyelids feel like sandpaper swiping across brittle glass but she wills her exhausted gaze to remain focused on the road before her. Yellow dashes and green street signs flash from the light of her high beams, swallowed in the ever vast shadow realm of the night. 

She’s taken this route before, more times than she can count. She knows the winding country roads like the back of her hand, she can name and locate every backstreet, interstate, and stop sign on this side of the country. But her weary bones creak as she cranks the steering wheel in a sloppy left turn into an exit and once on the highway she takes the opportunity to crack open a Red Bull, her last one. 

She sets the cruise control five miles beneath the speed limit and steers with her knees as she gulps the energy drink. She grimaces at the taste, like foul cold medicine that had sit in the cupboard for too long. She wishes she had gotten one of the flavoured varieties at her last stop but those kinds hadn’t been available in sixteen ounce size and needs must. 

Driving on the freeway is so sinfully easy and automatic it should be concerning. Maybe she’d be concerned if she were more awake. (She hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours, she remembers. She should, most definitely, be concerned.)

Tires eyes slither toward the digital clock on the dashboard. _5:14_. No way she's going to make it to her destination without more caffeine to keep her awake. Aleks’ weary subconscious vaguely reminds her that there’s an Exxon station just a few miles ahead off the next exit and she silently resolves to change her course. She’s ahead of schedule anyway, a quick detour won’t throw off her trip, right?

Pulling into the gas station feels like walking through a suburban neighbourhood on a cold winter’s night: eerie, lonesome, and altogether wrong. She’s used to the chilling sensation of going about her business during the wee hours of the night when the world is asleep but the tingling way her spine suddenly decides to remind her of its presence is always fresh. 

Unimpressive, solitary service stations like this one are places that almost uniformly feel like their existence in the living realm is conditional and unsettling. They’re meant to be gateways from place to place, and the idea that they stand on their own in their corners of the world leaves a bizarre, lingering sensation that’s hard to shake. It’s alarming yet pleasantly content, a feeling Zarya thinks she’s spent most of her adult life chasing. Always a rush, in her mind it’s one of the many perks of her unconventional choice of work.

She shifts gears in the designated truck parking area and spends a beat of time pondering whether or not to leave the keys in the vehicle. It shouldn’t take long to make a pit stop, should it? A faded yellow sign in the ad-crammed store window that looks to be older than her suddenly catches Aleksandra’s eye. _Hot shower! Pay with change!_ the poster boasts in unnecessarily extravagant font. The sleep-deprived woman’s gaze flickers to the console beside her. It’s been longer than she’d care to admit since she’s had a shower and her protesting muscles’ aching convinces her to root for coins.

Ten painstaking minutes later Zarya slides from the rig with a dirty sandwich bag full of change in one hand and her keys in another. The moment she clambers through into the store she feels as if time has slowed to a crawl. The place is deserted and smells faintly of chemical cleansers, not a single employee to be seen. A blinking security camera eyes her from the ceiling and a small wall-mounted television behind the counter quietly plays an obscure hockey match Aleksandra faintly remembers airing a few months ago. Somehow it feels as if she’s home, the only person on the planet with all the time in the world. 

She ambles to the back of the store where the bathrooms reside, following a sign that reads _SHOWER_ to a door with a key jutting from the handle lock. She steps into a room lined with two opposite rows of communal pay-by-quarters showers, undressing and laying her clothes by the door. The ancient showerhead Aleksandra chooses creaks like a broken floorboard as it turns on and it takes almost half of the first quarter’s duration to warm to a usable temperature. She utilizes the hotel-size toiletries resting on the tile floor, shampooing her messy pink hair and washing her massive frame as well as she can with a single palmful of body wash. 

She stays under the shower’s spray long after she’s clean, feeding quarter after quarter into the coin acceptor. She presses her forehead against the cool wall as the scalding mist soothes her stiff muscles, staying put until the water runs cold. Drying off with an entirely too-small towel, Zarya re-dresses and slips back into the aisles. She idly browses energy drinks and overpriced candy until hushed conversation pulls her attention to the counter where a dark-skinned older woman with a tasteful tattoo beneath her left eye appears to be clocking out for the night. Aleksandra’s heart seems to stop in her chest, however, when another employee emerges from the back room. 

She’s gorgeous, absolutely stunning, soft face accented by high cheekbones and golden blonde hair pulled into an untidy bun with flyaway locks falling over her right eye. She moves with calculated grace, smooth and light as if she’s floating. She looks like an angel descended from heaven, perfectly out of place in the rundown convenience store, and for the first time in her life, Zarya thinks she believes in destiny.

Aleks can’t hear what the angelic woman is saying to her coworker over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Her heart is pounding and constricting in her ribcage and she has to take a terse moment to breathe. She very abruptly begins to feel self-conscious in a way she hasn’t in years, assessing the wrinkled, less-than-fresh, plaid flannel she’d recycled after showering. Glancing at her reflection in the glass of a nearby refrigerator, she runs a hand through her damp pink hair until she’s satisfied with the positioning, then collects her drinks and snacks in her hands and waits anxiously as the employees finish speaking. 

The elder woman bids a quiet goodbye as she pushes her way out of the store and the blonde lifts a delicate hand in a quick wave of response. Zarya heaves a big breath before approaching the cashier and dumping her merchandise on the counter.

“Good morning, someone’s up early,” the woman greets, face brightening with a friendly smile. Her voice is affected with an unusual accent that tugs at Aleks’ soul like a plucked guitar string.

“Morning?” she replies questioningly, eyes darting to the analog clock on the wall behind the counter which reads 5:57. She blinks and feels her cheeks heat, rubbing her neck sheepishly. “It’s later than I thought.”

The woman chuckles lightly, musically, and Aleksandra feels as if a flower has just bloomed in her chest after feeling the morning sun’s warm caress for the first time. “So you’ve been awake all night, then?”

“ _Da_ , late work shift, you know how it is. Or not, I do not know how you spend your time. I don’t wish to make undue assumptions.” She curses herself internally for rambling, this woman is a person like any other, she should have no trouble conducting herself normally. The amused, pursed-lipped smile she receives in return, however, fully erases the nagging embarrassment burning in the back of her skull. “So, ah, what is your name?”

“I am Angela. And you are?”

“Aleksandra Zaryanova,” she states cavalierly, puffing her chest, “but most call me Zarya.”

“It is good to meet you, Zarya. Stocking up on snacks, I see?” There is an odd, sagely quality to Angela’s voice that unnerves Aleksandra more so than she already is and she nervously fidgets with the hem of her button-down, feeling surprisingly small before the cashier despite being very nearly a foot taller.

She smiles sheepishly, feebly attempting to tame the flustered fluttering rising in her throat. “It is a long drive to my destination.”

Angela scans a package of beef jerky and only then does Zarya realize she hadn’t been doing so while they were talking. “Where are you headed?”

“To the Vishkar headquarters a few miles out. I am delivering a shipment of materials for their newest project.”

“Oh? How nice to be employed by such a prestigious company.”

Zarya can’t help the laugh that bubbles from her, waving a hand in rebuttal. “ _Nyet_ , I am only a driver, I work for the transport company.”

“I see. I assume that is your vehicle outside?” 

“Indeed. A fine specimen, very powerful for towing. It is bigger than my usual rig, necessary for the heightened weight of the cargo. Makes for rather difficult turns.”

Angela listens with interest and nods as Zarya speaks, maintaining strong eye contact with striking crystal blue pools. “Very nice. Do you enjoy the work?”

“I do,” Aleksandra replies almost wistfully. “It is not the highest of pay, but most professions do not offer the kind of freedom available with this job. It has helped me become more acquainted with the area.”

“From your accent I assume you are not from here?” Angela replies with a coy smirk.

“I could say the same to you,” Zarya grins, “but you are correct. I only recently moved from my home in Russia.”

“What prompted the relocation?” There is something deeper than curiosity in the innocent words but Zarya cannot place it and she finds she doesn’t like not knowing.

She grunts and looks away, emerald eyes trained on her heavy work boots at the thought of her country’s dated legislative ideals. “Ah, personal choice. I am loyal to my homeland but, what is the saying? What you love you must let go.”

A flicker of something sorrowful flashes in Angela’s gaze; pity, a kindred understanding. Aleksandra's purchases lay on the counter, scanned and pushed aside, but neither woman can find it in them to care. “Do you miss it?”

A wavering shrug pulls at Zarya’s broad shoulders. “There is not much left for me in Russia, not as there once was, but I do not think I will ever be entirely accustomed to this place either.” Desperate for a change of subject, Aleks turns her attention back to Angela’s round face, clearing her throat. “What about you? What brings you away from your home?”

The cashier’s shoulders rise in a mirror of Zarya’s own previous motion. “What doesn’t? The world is vast and I have seen much. To me there is no merit in staying still.”

“So you will be departing soon, then?” Zarya hates the way that thought throbs in her gut when she hasn’t known Angela for even twenty minutes. 

“Perhaps,” she decides after a moment of thought. “I do not have immediate plans. There is always the possibility of new tethers binding me here. I have spent quite some time searching for a medical center that will accept me. A change of work would do well to me.”

Zarya’s dark brows shoot to her hairline. “You are a doctor?”

Angela chuckles at the shocked expression adorning the trucker’s face. “You mustn’t always trust your assumptions, Zarya,” she chides like a mother admonishing a misbehaved child. “Things are not often what they seem.”

“If you have medical abilities then what are you doing in a place like this?”

“It is sometimes necessary to allow myself time to breathe. Not every moment needs to be a progressive one.”

Zarya blinks, slow and thoughtful, mind buzzing with new conviction and a stubborn recurrence of the colour yellow. “You are a complicated woman, Angela.”

“As are you, Aleksandra.”

The inevitable impasse has been reached and Zarya knows she must make the next move if she wishes to keep a fleeting hold on the fallen angel with dark undereye circles that stands before her with a face painted in ethereality. “Could I-” she falters, apprehensive, but forces herself to push on, “give you my number?”

“Is that what you want to do?”

Zarya sighs, exasperated at the cryptic answer yet nevertheless spirited. “I’m trying to ask if you’re interested in my type of… _company_.” She silently begs the universe for a real response so she doesn’t have to directly ask the woman whether or not she’s into other women.

Angela stifles a soft giggle and stares up at Aleksandra with playful half-lidded eyes. “Yes, I am interested,” she concedes, soft lips stretching into a smile. 

Zarya digs in her pocket for an old fast food receipt, scribbling a chain of digits and an accompanying heart on the back with one of the cheap holiday pens for sale on the counter, pushing the phone number across the worn wood to Angela. The woman takes the paper, pocketing it and finally ringing up the order. 

“Your total is thirty-nine dollars and eighty-two cents.”

Aleksandra slides her card and types in her pin, maintaining silence so she doesn’t say something stupid to ruin what she feels budding between her and the golden-haired oddity watching her every movement. Angela bags the items and hands them to Zarya, who steps to the door and waves cooly. 

“Talk to you soon,” she attempts, testing the waters with a weak, fledgling smirk. 

“You can count on it.”

She departs from the store and returns to her vehicle, tossing the bag in the passenger seat and pausing to mentally digest the events that had just transpired. She grins broadly like a lovesick fool and her whole body tenses giddily at the thought of seeing Angela again. Her gorgeous, solitary, merciful angel.

Suddenly she remembers that she has a job to do, gaze falling on the far-off horizon where the sun is beginning to lighten the sky. She frantically checks the digital dashboard clock to see it’s rapidly approaching six thirty in the morning when she’s expected to be at the Vishkar Industries building by seven.

“ _Sukin syn!_ ” she curses loudly to herself as she pulls out of the freeway Exxon station and back onto the road. “Ms. Vaswani is going to kill me…”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> da - yes, yeah  
> nyet - no  
> sukin syn - son of a bitch
> 
> drop in to say hi at comrade-schlau.tumblr.com


End file.
